Transcript: My mother looks at me like I have grown tentacles before her eyes even though I’m pretty sure I look the same as I did 5 seconds ago, when she thought my suit jacket was just “professional,” before I told her I am hella gay. The first time I heard the word that was dropped casually on the radio in the car with my mom the summer before 4th grade, it dripped down the air conditioner so noticeably, I couldn’t help but ask if "gay" was a bad thing. She explained, “it’s not necessarily a bad thing, it just isn’t our thing.” Years later I am 17 half daughter, half apology, all fire in the wrong kind of love when my mother asks “how could you possibly love something that looks just like you do?” I wonder how long she has hated herself. I convinced myself I could pick up being straight like a sport; I just need to practice. I just need to set my mind to it I just need to convince my mom to want to be my mom again. She sends me an email with the subject line: are you being gay for attention? I am drunk with shame for hiding this unsanitary secret in the same closet as her clean linens. She wants to know when I knew, and I wish I could tell her something simple like “since swim class” or “the locker room” or maybe, maybe “since the first day of junior high when I sat behind Danah Murray and smelled her Herbal Essences shampoo.” My mother is old enough to be my grandmother. As a child she would sing to me every night “Blythe, I wished upon a million stars for you.” How could I not mistake the ceiling of her love for the sky? And she tried to braid flowers in my hair, asked if every friend was a boyfriend, didn’t mind if I brought home a bruised wrist or a black eye as long as I had a prom date. She’d rather take a photo of me wincing with a boy than of me smiling with a girl. My mother says her opinion shouldn’t mean anything to me, because when has her opinion ever meant anything to me and she’s only one person in the grande scheme of things so I know her opinion is not the ocean, but even if the harbor isn’t very deep, people drown in their own bathtubs. Would she still have wished for me if she knew I wasn’t going to love the way she taught me to? My mom insists she doesn't mind the glitter, just the mess it’s left all over the house. She doesn’t mind my sexuality, just how it sticks to the furniture. She’s not angry with me, just exhausted. Now, there is too much to clean up before we have company. When my mother asks if I am gay I tell her, "I am- sorry."
"'how could you possibly love something that looks just like you?' I wonder how long she has hated herself." Those lines... those lines just hit completely different.
Not really. We're not half anything. If there's something I hate is people saying we're half gay and half straight. No, I'm not gay, I'm not straight, that's why the term bisexual exists, because it's something else entirely.
Transcript:
My mother looks at me like I have grown tentacles before her eyes even though I’m pretty sure I look the same as I did 5 seconds ago, when she thought my suit jacket was just “professional,” before I told her I am hella gay. The first time I heard the word that was dropped casually on the radio in the car with my mom the summer before 4th grade, it dripped down the air conditioner so noticeably, I couldn’t help but ask if "gay" was a bad thing. She explained, “it’s not necessarily a bad thing, it just isn’t our thing.” Years later I am 17 half daughter, half apology, all fire in the wrong kind of love when my mother asks “how could you possibly love something that looks just like you do?” I wonder how long she has hated herself. I convinced myself I could pick up being straight like a sport; I just need to practice. I just need to set my mind to it I just need to convince my mom to want to be my mom again. She sends me an email with the subject line: are you being gay for attention? I am drunk with shame for hiding this unsanitary secret in the same closet as her clean linens. She wants to know when I knew, and I wish I could tell her something simple like “since swim class” or “the locker room” or maybe, maybe “since the first day of junior high when I sat behind Danah Murray and smelled her Herbal Essences shampoo.” My mother is old enough to be my grandmother. As a child she would sing to me every night “Blythe, I wished upon a million stars for you.” How could I not mistake the ceiling of her love for the sky? And she tried to braid flowers in my hair, asked if every friend was a boyfriend, didn’t mind if I brought home a bruised wrist or a black eye as long as I had a prom date. She’d rather take a photo of me wincing with a boy than of me smiling with a girl. My mother says her opinion shouldn’t mean anything to me, because when has her opinion ever meant anything to me and she’s only one person in the grande scheme of things so I know her opinion is not the ocean, but even if the harbor isn’t very deep, people drown in their own bathtubs. Would she still have wished for me if she knew I wasn’t going to love the way she taught me to? My mom insists she doesn't mind the glitter, just the mess it’s left all over the house. She doesn’t mind my sexuality, just how it sticks to the furniture. She’s not angry with me, just exhausted. Now, there is too much to clean up before we have company. When my mother asks if I am gay I tell her, "I am- sorry."
YO SHOUTOUT TO THE ASL INTERPRETER !!!!
"'how could you possibly love something that looks just like you?' I wonder how long she has hated herself."
Those lines... those lines just hit completely different.
I love this poem. She's amazing
Beautiful.
oh my god this hit too close to home
'half daughter and half apology' would work perfect for Bisexual people....
Not really. We're not half anything. If there's something I hate is people saying we're half gay and half straight. No, I'm not gay, I'm not straight, that's why the term bisexual exists, because it's something else entirely.
Hi